Okay
by Bedelia
Summary: Ron and Astoria's spouses run away together. "Somehow we ended up sharing a pint of ice cream. If that isn't the saddest cliche in the world, I don't know what is. That was the spark that began our friendship. Mine and Astoria's." One-shot.


**Okay**

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_**A/N: **__I started writing this story one night after reading one too many Dramiones in which Hermione cheats on Ron, but Ron is treated as the one who is at fault. I decided to write what I thought would happen on Ron's side in the (let's face it) extremely unlikely scenario of Hermione undergoing a complete personality change and running off with Draco Malfoy. __Thanks for reading!  
__**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work._

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I really wanted to believe that it was only sex.

Not that I would have been okay with it if it had been. Few men like the idea of their wife sleeping around, and I am not among their ranks. I'm not exactly known for handling jealousy well. I could have at least _understood _if that had been the case, though. I mean, he is a fairly attractive bloke, even with the receding hairline.

Not that I notice such things.

But this...this _relationship_ of theirs. I don't get it. How did they move from such intense loathing to...to...

Bloody hell, I can't even say the word.

A lot of people thought I was completely clueless right up until the day she left me. I might not have managed all O's back at Hogwarts, but I'm not stupid. I saw the heated glances and the tiny touches in the corridors of the Ministry. I noticed the way she wouldn't meet my eyes every time she said she would be working late.

For a few, horrible months, I spent most of my spare time trying to obtain proof. I'm still not sure if I'm just a crap Auror or if Malfoy is just exceptionally sneaky, but I never managed to catch them in the act. Harry was the only person I told about my suspicions, but he never believed that she would actually cheat on me. I lost count of how many times he told me that my obsession was unhealthy, and I should just approach her to talk about my insecurities calmly and rationally.

As if Hermione and I ever did anything calmly and rationally together.

I knew that we could never repair our marriage if Hermione and Malfoy were in love (there, I said it). I wanted it to be purely physical because I was sure we could recover from that. Maybe with one of those Muggle marriage counsellors and a teensy bit of me murdering a certain ferret. I might not be the best Auror, but I am certainly capable of covering up a homicide.

I'm just kidding. Mostly.

The whole thing started as one of her projects. Poor little Malfoy was shunned by everyone when he started working at the Ministry. Her bleeding heart couldn't handle seeing him eat lunch alone in his office day after day. So, she wormed her way into his life. It started with barely civil lunches, progressed to friendly outings to museums and the opera and other places I never liked to accompany her, and culminated with a tearstained note to me left on her pillow.

It was a nice letter. As perfect as it could be, given the situation. Told me how much she loved me and the kids, how sorry she was, how they never planned for it to happen.

It was a load of shit, really.

That morning, Astoria Malfoy showed up on my doorstep. We had seen each other at Ministry functions, but I'm not sure we actually spoke before that day. She had always been regal, poised, and beautiful. I remember thinking that she looked impossibly perfect — like some sort of porcelain doll. It was strange to see her disheveled, tearstained, and frantic.

She was still beautiful, though. Even when her voice became so shrill that I kind of wanted to gag her.

"He ran off with her, didn't he?" she asked me.

I knew that Astoria's marriage to Malfoy was arranged. Most pureblood marriages were, even after the war. Clinging to the old ways goes hand in hand with old money, I guess. I also knew that in spite of how they came together, she was madly in love with her husband. The way she looked at him — well, it was the way I always looked at Hermione.

Malfoy knew it, too. He had to. But the bastard didn't even bother to tell her he was leaving. No, that happy task was left to me.

I didn't handle it very well. Instead of sitting her down and telling her the horrible truth in a gentle voice, I just shoved Hermione's note at her and stomped back into the house, as if it was her fault that our spouses had abandoned us. She followed me inside without waiting for an invitation, which very nearly made me shout at her in a fit of annoyance. Ignoring my irrational anger at Astoria, I sat on the sofa, completely silent, while she paced around my living room and enumerated the various ways she was going to emasculate her husband.

The woman was creative; I had to give her that.

Somehow, we ended up sprawled out on the floor in front of the Muggle television that my father bought Hermione and I as a wedding present, sharing a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. We didn't even bother with bowls — we just grabbed two spoons and dug in.

If that isn't the saddest bloody cliche in the world, I don't know what is. Still, I can't regret it. That was the spark that began _our_ friendship. Mine and Astoria's.

I will never remember how we broke the news of our impending divorces to our children. I know that we decided we didn't want to wait for Hermione and Malfoy to return from wherever they'd run off to. I know that we went to Hogwarts together and asked to see the kids privately. I know that Rosie cried, Scorpius didn't say a word, and Hugo accused us of lying. I know that in the middle of it all, an owl arrived with letters to each of the kids from Hermione and Malfoy, assuring them that even though they were filing for divorce, they were not abandoning their children. Thank Merlin they thought to do that much, at least. But I don't remember my mouth forming the words; I don't remember how I managed to force the news up over the lump in my throat.

Maybe that's for the best. I don't know.

My clearest memory of that day is the way Astoria smiled at me when it was all over and told me that the kids would be okay. That _we_ would be okay. She looked so sure of herself that I kind of started to believe it, too.

Most people don't get me and Astoria. Ginny has asked on more than one occasion if we're sleeping together. She seems to think that we have some badly thought out scheme for revenge, but it's not like that. Astoria is my friend and companion, not my lover.

Don't get me wrong — I wouldn't turn her down if she offered. Like I said, I'm not stupid.

It has been two years since our divorces were made final, and she still shows up every day at the Ministry to have lunch with me. I would be lying if I said I never considered shoving Astoria onto my desk and shagging her until neither of us could walk. It's a recurring fantasy that has probably only never come to fruition because the homemade (by a house elf, I'm sure) lunches she brings me are so incredibly delicious.

It's difficult for me to think about anything — even sex — when I am being distracted by the most mouthwatering steak and ale pie ever made. But believe me, if she ever brings me undercooked chicken or watery soup, it will be _on_.

We almost never discuss Hermione and Malfoy these days. At first, they were all we _could _talk about — all we had in common, really. Now we talk about things like the kids, my job, her latest shopping spree, and Quidditch.

You wouldn't guess it to look at her, but Astoria is one fierce Quidditch fan. The first time we went to a Cannons match together she made herself hoarse from cheering. For such a dainty looking woman, she sure can make a racket.

_And_ she hates Krum. I nearly forgot that we are just friends when she started ranting about old Vicky's sloping forehead. I swear, I was halfway in the process of getting on bended knee when she quirked an eyebrow at me and asked what I was doing.

Even so, now and then I find myself thinking of Hermione and Malfoy. I get annoyingly morose when that happens. I have a great life, with wonderful kids who I am almost certain love me more than they love their mother (hey, we may have joint custody, but_ she_ instigated the divorce, and I deserve to be a little petty now and then), and some of the truest friends a man could ask for. And yet, I can't help but resent my ex-wife and her new husband for their obvious happiness.

"Do you reckon they ever think about us?" I asked Astoria the other day through a mouthful of delectable salmon risotto.

She handed me a napkin and shot me what I thought was an expression of amused fondness before responding. "Ron Weasley, don't you dare get all depressed on me now. I just bought the most adorable ice blue silk robes from Madam Malkin's, and I am not about to let you spoil my retail therapy high."

I will never love anything or anyone the way Astoria loves new clothes. My devotion to food comes close, but I have come to accept that the kind of passion my friend shares with pretty little dresses and robes is just not in the cards for me.

"I'm not getting depressed. I was just wondering."

That was a lie, and she knew it. That's the great thing about having a Slytherin for a best friend, though (never thought I would say _that_). They tend to take lies in stride.

"Hmm." Astoria smiled that funny little half-smile she reserved for the times she knew I was bullshitting her. Then she fished two thick slices of chocolate cake with raspberry ganache and whipped cream out of her designer picnic basket.

I adored that woman. And her chef.

She let me get halfway through the cake (the work of but a moment for a pro like myself) before she spoke again.

"Yes, they think about us," she said with a decisive nod. "How could they not, when Hermione has a typical Gryffindor conscience and so much of Draco's monthly income is paid to me in alimony?"

I am almost 100 percent certain that Astoria's divorce attorney used some sort of dark magic when negotiating her settlement. I turned a blind eye, though. I despise Malfoy almost as much as I love his ex-wife, and I enjoy seeing him stripped of his wealth.

Ah, Schadenfreude.

"Do you still think we'll be okay?" I asked. I knew I sounded rather pitiful, but Astoria once saw me break down in tears when I found one of Hermione's socks. I had very little shame around her.

"Are you serious? Look at us!" She gestured wildly around the room, as if I would find the answer to my question in a corner of my cramped little office. "We _are_ okay, Ron. Bugger the two of them. We're fabulous."

Once again, Astoria looked totally sure of what she was saying. This time, I let myself believe it completely.

We were okay.

_The End_


End file.
